


Deciding Vigils

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Cold Weather, Gen, Hypothermia, It's For a Case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: “You should not have come after me.”
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

“You should not have come after me.”

“You should know better than to think I wouldn’t.”

* * *

“Someone’s coming.”

The furtive whisper barely carried through the rapidly falling snow, and Holmes ducked further behind the bushes. Their target was not supposed to arrive for another thirty minutes. Who would travel this part of town so late at night?

Muffled footsteps sounded just ahead, and a shape appeared out of the white. A familiar silhouette took the street at a limping run, aiming straight for the bushes just left of where Holmes crouched.

“Watson!” he hissed when the shape grew close enough, and his friend changed direction to dive behind Holmes’ cover. “What are you doing here?!” He had purposely not alerted his friend to this stakeout. Watson should not have even known where to find him.

“This is a trap!” Watson whispered, urgency lacing every word. “The gang knows you’re here!”

An ice far sharper than the type building on the streets shot through him. They had set an ambush to catch one of the more violent gangs terrorizing the docks, but there were far too many access points for the gang to use as their own ambush.

“Lestrade!” he called as loudly as he dared, and the shape three bushes away turned to look then crawled slightly closer. Holmes quickly relayed Watson’s words, and Lestrade’s face stilled as he hurried towards the others. He would get the warning out, and Holmes turned back to Watson, intending to tell him to leave. It was far too cold outside for someone currently prone to hyperthermia; Watson was already shivering despite running from Baker Street.

Watson’s gaze focused behind him, and his eyes widened.

“Behind!”

The warning cut off Holmes’ words, and he spun, blocking the heavy punch aimed at his head and returning one of his own. Figures poured from the alley behind them, and the attacker went down only for another to take his place. Another back landed against his, Watson’s shivering noticeable even through the tenuous contact. They needed to end this quickly.

Shadows filled the street, discernible only by shape and the occasional gleam of badge or weapon as the Yarders fought to turn the ambush back on the gang. Even the moment’s warning had made the difference, and one by one, their attackers fell to the ground, dazed. Silence reigned within a few minutes.

“Watson?” Holmes asked immediately.

His friend waved an acknowledgement but said nothing, clenching his jaw as he scanned the shapes moving through the storm to ensure there were no injuries.

“Come.” Holmes moved closer, grasping Watson’s trembling arm. “The Yard’s doctor can handle any problems.”

Watson scowled but followed Holmes away from the Yarders, and Holmes smothered a frown. He had expected at least a token protest, and he did not like how violently Watson was shivering—or that he was beginning to stumble instead of limp. Holmes moved quickly, dragging more than leading Watson toward the flat and warmth. After nearly drowning the previous spring, Watson had displayed a worrying sensitivity to cold that had already sent him into dangerous hypothermia once. They needed to get out of the storm.

A familiar door finally loomed out of the blowing white, and Mrs. Hudson stepped into the entry as the door closed behind them.

“Doctor,” she greeted, her expression conveying the worry her words did not when the lamplight illuminated Watson’s bluing lips.

“A fresh pot of tea,” Holmes ordered on the way toward the stairs, taking Watson’s arm more firmly when his friend’s leg nearly buckled, “hot water bottles, and a hot toddy, if you can. Are the extra blankets still in the same place?”

“Yes,” she answered as she turned away. Her footsteps hurried back into the kitchen, and Holmes helped Watson slowly climb the stairs, the doctor fighting his violent shivering for every step.

Only Holmes’ grip on his arm prevented Watson from falling as he stumbled across the room, and he pulled a blanket over himself as he sat heavily on the settee. A minute later, Holmes looked up from building the fire to find Watson relaxing further into the cushions, his eyes closed.

“Stay awake!” The words came out in something close to a snap, and Holmes leaped to his feet, shaking Watson’s shoulder as his friend forcefully opened his eyes.

“Right,” Watson mumbled around chattering teeth, gaze looking through the floor as he tried to wrap the blanket tighter. “S-sorry. Tired.”

Holmes went back to building the fire, though he watched his friend almost more than he watched what he was doing. Watson kept his eyes open, however, sitting hunched but upright on the settee as violent tremors shook him beneath the thick blanket he had draped over his shoulders.

Mrs. Hudson bustled through the door as Holmes finished with the fire, setting a tea tray on the closest end table even as she glanced worriedly at where Watson shivered on the settee.

“Anything else, Mr. Holmes?” she asked when Watson gave no notice to her presence.

Holmes shook his head, and she left as he gained his feet. Grabbing a nearby blanket, he helped Watson readjust to lay beneath both layers. One hot water bottle went on either side of his chest, and three more blankets soon draped over the first two.

“Tryin’ t’ bury me?” Watson mumbled, readjusting under the weight though he stared blearily through the wall. “No’ ready yet.”

Relief at the humor fought with worry at how much the words slurred, and Holmes placed the final water bottle near Watson’s stomach.

“You should not have come after me.”

Watson gripped the blankets, nearly stretching them as he tried to wrap them tighter. “Headed into a trap,” he replied slowly, obviously aware enough to realize that the last sentence had been slurred though his gaze remained unfocused. “’Course I’m comin’ after you.”

“How did you find us?”

Watson readjusted again. “Flat was closer th’n home,” he answered, struggling to keep his eyes open but successfully enunciating most of his words. “Needed…out of the storm, but no one answered th’ door. Block ‘way when Irregular found me, looking for you.”

Holmes made no effort to hide his scowl. “You have a key. Use it.”

Watson twitched his shoulder in what could have been a shrug—or a spasm. “Would’ve been fine t’ get home. Just uncomfortable. An’ it let me reach you sooner.”

That block had probably been a walk of several minutes in this weather, and those few minutes were the difference in Watson’s warning arriving barely in time or not at all. Holmes’ safety was not worth Watson’ health, however, and Holmes made no reply, studying his friend in the firelight.

“’M fine, Holmes,” Watson told him when the silence stretched too long. “I feel warmer already, and m’ shivering is slowing.”

His violent shivering _was_ finally beginning to slow, and the difficulty speaking could be more fatigue than cold. Perhaps they had avoided the more dangerous stages of hypothermia, but that did not change the truth of Holmes’ statement.


	2. Chapter 2

“You still should not have come after me.”

I scowled, finally managing to focus on Holmes’ keen gaze. “You should know better than to think I wouldn’t.” My shoulder made me readjust. “‘Sides,” I added before I could think better of it, “better a cold vigil than a worried one.”

Holmes stared at me for a moment. “For whom?” he finally asked, obviously thinking he had gotten _both_ of those options, one on the stakeout and the other in his sitting room.

I waved him off. I would finish warming up in a few minutes, and a night’s sleep would set me to rights. He would not be sitting another vigil tonight.

“I’m _fine,”_ I said again. “I didn’t get that cold.”

Holmes huffed at me. “Then why are you still slurring?”

Because I had forgotten to focus on speaking clearly, but I saw no reason to tell him that.

“Because I’m tired,” I answered instead, making sure my words were clearer despite my fatigue. The blankets slipped, and the tremors made my grasping fingers miss on the first attempt to pull them back. I succeeded on the second. “You know this.”

He stared at me, trying to decide if I was truly alright or if I was just saying so to avoid the fuss that came with _not_ being alright, and silence fell between us. I understood his worry. He knew I despised announcing a problem just as much as he did, but I truly _was_ fine. I was more tired than cold, and I would have more symptoms if my temperature had slipped dangerously low. All I needed was rest.

“You cannot sleep yet.”

The words came after a long pause, and I forced my eyes open yet again, not aware I had closed them. After snapping at me earlier, I knew better than to think Holmes would let me sleep, and protesting was not worth the effort.

“I’m ‘wake.”

I could tell that phrase had slurred together, and the frown that flickered across Holmes’ face confirmed it.

“Am I still mumbling?” I asked before he could speak.

He hesitated but shook his head, and I burrowed deeper into the blankets, trying to put the hot water bottle next to my shoulder. “Good,” I said shortly—and probably a bit thickly. “Just tired, then. Hyp—” My leaden tongue refused to wrap around the word, and I broke off and tried again slowly. “Hypo—thermia has the ‘-umbles,’ remember?” I pried my eyes open once more to see confusion mix with worry. “Stumble, mumble, grumble,” I added before he could decide I had stopped thinking clearly.

Understanding replaced the confusion, and some of the worry faded. “You are still shivering.”

Yes, I was, and while the tremors were not as bad as they had been, they _were_ getting bothersome—and painful.

Another spasm shot through my shoulder before I could brush him off, and I tried to breathe through it. Those got stronger every time I got too cold, and the spasms that had been plaguing me for the last week paled in comparison with the ones that had been tearing through my old injuries since I had gone to the docks.

“It is slowing,” I said when I had gotten my breath back. My trembling _was_ slowing, though the spasms were getting worse. They would probably not ease until morning, at least, and, hoping to sleep through the worst of them, I almost let my eyes drift shut before I remembered why I had to stay awake.

If I fell asleep before I warmed up completely, I might never wake up. I turned the motion into a slow blink.

“Where is Mary?” he asked as I forced my fatigue-bleary gaze to focus on him.

“Home.” My leg twitched, and I covered it by readjusting under the mound of blankets. “Told her I would come here if the storm hit before I finished my rounds.”

He nodded, at least slightly relieved though he would never show it. We would not have to worry about Mary searching the streets for me.

He opened his mouth to ask another question, but before he could form the words, painfully strong spasms shot through my shoulder and leg simultaneously. I avoided crying out but could not smother the resulting flinch, and Holmes’ hand landed atop the blankets, preventing me from tumbling to the floor.

“Watson?” he asked, obviously wondering why I had flinched so badly. Even if I had hidden the other twinges, there had been no hiding that one.

“Fine.” I finally got one still-warm water bottle to sit next to my left shoulder, and I resisted the urge to sigh. The warmth felt wonderful, and my eyes tried to slide shut once more despite my shivering.

“Stay awake.” The hand still on the blankets shook me slightly, and I pried my eyes open to find renewed worry in his gaze. “Where are you injured?”

I jerked my head in a negative. “Not—” Even the smaller ones stole my breath, and the word cut off as my shoulder twinged. “Nothing new,” I got out. “Shoulder. Leg.”

Some of the worry faded, and he relaxed back into his chair as he continued studying me.

“Do not follow me next time.”

I scowled at him, pressing my shoulder against the quickly cooling water bottle. “Can’t promise that, and you know it. I keep telling you to let us help. Why did you stop asking?”

“The weather—” he started.

I waved that aside before he could finish. “We both know you stopped asking before that first cold stakeout,” I cut in, still scowling as another spasm shot through my leg. “The only reason I was there for that was because I stopped for a visit at the right time. It has been months since you came to Kensington or asked me to come here for a case. Why? You cannot still believe I have to choose between you and Mary?” I resisted the urge to glance at either the mantel or his arms. He had fallen into a deep cocaine binge in the months after my marriage, and while he hardly showed the signs of drug use now, I could not think of another reason for him to not want our help.

He shook his head quickly, but footsteps on the stairs interrupted whatever he would have answered. Mrs. Hudson walked through the door a moment later, tray in hand, and my gaze locked on the kettle.

“Are those bottles getting cold?” she asked before I could find the words.

I nodded, now able to control my shivering long enough to maneuver the tepid bottles free. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

She waved me off, and a couple of minutes saw renewed warmth filling the cocoon of blankets. Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs.

“You never answered my question,” I said, burrowing deeper beneath the blankets as my shivering finally tapered to a halt.

“You need to sleep.”

I huffed, forcing my eyes open despite my fatigue. “Not until you answer me. Was it the incident at the pier?”

He hesitated before shaking his head, and I knew I was on the right track. I may not be able to deduce a stranger on the street, but I knew Holmes. “Something related to the pier, then,” I decided. “What?”

He refused to answer, and I reviewed all that had happened the previous spring. I had nearly dragged him out of London after he had worked himself to exhaustion on several cases. The four-day trip to the sea was supposed to have been a holiday of sorts, but we had been attacked on the second day. An escaped member of a smuggling ring Holmes had recently dissolved had recognized us, and I had been pushed off the pier in the resulting fight. I had been moments away from drowning in the frigid water when Holmes pulled me out. The hypothermia had kept me in bed for days.

Our conversation when I had woken came to mind, and I realized what he might be refusing to voice.

“Is this what you decided that day, when I first woke after the pier?”

He stared at me, surprise flickering faintly through his gaze.

“It _is!”_ I pushed myself off the pillow, keeping the blankets around me even as I pulled myself nearly upright. This was far more important than the fatigue trying to send me to sleep. “You stopped asking us for help because I lost a fight?!”

“Of course not!” The reply was sharp, genuine, but no other answer was forthcoming.

“What is it, then? That was hardly the first time one or both of us have been injured during your cases, and I thought we resolved the part about that incident being by association.”

He made no answer, apparently unable to produce the words he needed, and a truly horrible idea washed over me.

“You were never going to ask again, were you?” The question came out as a pained whisper, and I watched his eyes, looking for the response he would not voice. “You no longer trust me to assist you.”

Distress appeared in his gaze, and he finally found his words. “No!” He gestured sharply, as if trying to cut the idea to pieces. He was telling the truth—at least partially. “That is not true at all. I—do not want to take you from Mary.”

“Then ask her, too,” I replied. “Heaven knows we have both helped on several cases. You know she thrives in the challenge, and I know that that is not the full reason. So what is it? If not because you do not trust me anymore, why did you decide to stop asking us for help?”

“I just told you,” he snapped. “I will not make—” He broke off, nearly shutting his mouth with a click, but I had heard enough.

“I already made my choice, Holmes, and we made it work for over a year. What changed?”

He fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, and I propped myself against the back of the settee, fighting to stay awake long enough for him to answer.

“Holmes?” I said when he remained quiet.

“Most of my recent cases have not been ones requiring two people,” he finally said.

I relaxed against the cushions. _Now_ we were getting somewhere. “And?”

“And…you are rubbish at disguises.”

The quoted words came out more as a question than a statement, and I resisted the urge to smirk at the attempted redirection. “And?”

He shifted again. “And I will not put either of you in danger if I can do it alone.”

Why did I get the feeling that his answer was still not the full answer?

“We have been over that. _You_ are not putting me in danger. I am. Why will you not give me the real answer?”

He again refused to respond, and I knew it was likely because knowing the true answer might allow me to circumvent it. I sighed as I laid back onto the pillow.

“It is not because you do not trust me?” I checked, watching him.

He shook his head mutely, helping me reposition the lukewarm water bottle against my shoulder.

“Is it something I did?”

Again, he shook his head no.

“Something I didn’t do?”

Still no, and I firmly shut my mouth. I was tired enough I could easily start rambling, trying to hit on the reason by chance, and that would do nothing but worry him. I did not need him thinking fatigue-worried questions were the first sign of some cold-induced illness.

“Don’t shut us out, Holmes. Please.”

The thought drifted faintly just before I fell asleep, and I hoped I had not said it aloud. Far too much pleading had leaked into the few words to ever allow free.

If I had said it, I was asleep before Holmes responded. I would try to revive the conversation another day, though I doubted Holmes would answer then, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always thoroughly enjoyed!


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